A Promise Not Forgotten
by blue-eyed-cow
Summary: Years ago, he was there when a Boggart made George scream. A week ago, he was there when the bizarreness of a situation made George laugh. Now, he is there when a lost twin makes George weep. Charlie will always be there, just like he promised. Three-Shot
1. Part One: The Boggart in the Chest

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I have returned from Never Land (aka Land of "What-the-hell-ever-happened-to-this-author?"), and I'm back with some more angsty Weasley Twin stories! This one's called 'A Promise Not Forgotten'. This is a Three-Shot I've been working on for a while. I got the first two parts done a while back, but could never complete the third part. Until today, that is, when I found the incomplete story and decided to finish it. So I hope you like it! I haven't written a story about Charlie before, so I hope I did ok :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Harry Potter.**

Part One: The Boggart in the Chest

All George had been doing was cleaning the scullery. Why the tiny, dusty, crowded room even needed cleaning was well beyond George. The only time the Weasley's had even used it was when laundry was to be done, or brooms and pots and pans could not fit in the kitchen and had to be stored here. It was a room the children hardly ever went in. But, according to Molly, spring-cleaning was here, and this room needed to be cleaned eventually. And George was so lucky as to be the one to clean it, while his twin got to play Quidditch outside with his brothers, as everyone should do over Easter Break. George heaved a sigh. Thirteen-year-olds should not have to be put through this kind of thing over the break from a very difficult second year of Hogwarts. He was positive exposure to this much dust at such a young age couldn't be good for you.

George gathered a broom, a dustpan, an old rag, and a bucket of water, and reluctantly got to work, taking frequent breaks and letting himself get easily distracted. It was times like these that he wished he could use magic outside of school.

About twenty minutes in, (who knew such a small room would have so many things to clean?), George had moved enough boxes and brooms and other tall objects out of the way to reveal something hidden behind them. It was a very old-looking chest; rusty and moldy. George supposed he should clean it off, then put it away on a shelf or something. But his trouble-making instinct got the best of him, and suddenly he had a strong desire to know what was in this old chest.

So he brushed some of the dust off of it, coughing as he did so, and then took a look at the front of the chest. There was a small lock, but it was currently unhinged. However, the lid and the rim of the chest were both metal, and completely covered in orange rust.

George adjusted himself so he could see the chest better in the dim light, and then proceeded to try to open it. He soon found himself grunting and panting in the effort to pry the lid open. Finally, he could feel the rust chipping away, releasing, allowing the redhead to open the chest.

He would come to wish he had never opened it.

For a second, the chest merely lay open, its contents too dark to view, its lid standing stiffly on its rim. All was silent.

Then it fell over, and the dead body of Fred came tumbling out of it.

George's world imploded. He felt like the floor had slipped from underneath him, and he was falling into pure nothingness. He felt as though a cold hand had just grabbed hold of his stomach and wrenched it right out of his body. He felt cold, hot, his head, his head hurt, it hurt, his heart twisted, his legs shook, he felt sick, empty, he lost all control, all of it was gone, gone…

And the worst part was that he couldn't look away. He couldn't look away from his twin's mangled body. From his limbs, all twisted at odd angles. From his chest, bleeding non-stop, dripping the scarlet liquid onto the dusty floor, staining it. From his face, pale as death, blood seeping from his open mouth, out of his nose, trickling down the side of his freckled face. From his eyes. Unseeing. Blank.

Lifeless.

George didn't even think about how old and rusty that chest had been, and that he had seen his twin about a half hour earlier. He didn't think about the fact that the chest was so small, much too small to fit Fred inside of it. He didn't think about any of that. All he knew was Fred. His twin.

Dead.

He wasn't aware that he had fallen back onto the floor, staring horrified at the figure on the ground in front of him. He wasn't aware that he had let out a horrified scream, a blood-curdling scream, a tragic, sobbing, desperate scream.

He didn't know what he would have done if Charlie hadn't found him.

While everyone else was outside, either cleaning or goofing off, Charlie had come inside to get a drink of water. He had just gotten a glass out of a cabinet, and was ready to use '_Aguamenti'_ to fill it up, when he heard a terrifying, awful scream. His heart skipped a beat. The glass crashed to the floor. Then the seventeen year-old felt his legs moving, running, bringing him to the source of the scream. The scullery.

George had pushed himself against the opposite wall, as far away from the body a possible, sobbing and yelling and shaking all over. He no longer knew anything. Nothing but the body of his brother. His best friend. His twin. Fred.

Then the door flew open, harsh light streaming in and sending dust flying everywhere. Charlie stood in the doorframe, looking thoroughly panicked, panting, his wand out. He saw George, cowering against the wall, eyes wide and terrified, still screaming. Then he saw Fred, bleeding to death on the floor, his mouth hanging open, his eyes not seeing. For a second, his world seemed to end, too. His head swarmed. He nearly lost his footing. But then his senses came to him. He had just seen Fred outside, not even two minutes ago.

Charlie saw it for what it really was.

"_Riddikulus!_"

The boggart immediately transformed, replacing the body with many small, wind-up toy mice, squeaking and frantically scurrying about. With one fluent motion, Charlie shoved the shape-shifter back into the chest that lay open beside it, shutting it tight and locking it with his wand. Then he just knelt there, panting, forcing the terrible image of his lifeless brother out of his head. All was silent.

George whimpered.

In a second, Charlie was there, kneeling down next to him, his muscled arms wrapped protectively around his brother. He said, in the most comforting voice he could manage, "It's ok, George. It wasn't really him. It wasn't real. I promise. It's ok." He hated how unsteady his voice was, how shaken he sounded.

"He… he was d-dead! _Dead!"_ Pure hysteria crept its way into George' voice, as he choked on another sob.

Charlie hugged tighter. "It wasn't real, George. It's called a boggart. You'll learn about 'em third year. Live in dark, crammed places. Turn into someone's worst fear. That wasn't real, George. It was just a fear. Nothing more. I promise."

Charlie allowed George a few minutes to calm down. His body was still trembling, and his breaths were short and hitched. He cried into Charlie's shirt for a while.

Charlie hadn't seen George cry since he was an infant.

Finally, George started to breath at a normal rate, his sobs reduced to occasional hiccups. Then he ever so slightly scooted away from Charlie, and the ginger got the hint to let go. He slowly lowered his thick arms, but remained sitting next to George on the dusty wooden floor. George was still staring at the spot where the boggart had been. There was no blood on the floor. There were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Yet George's hazel eyes never left the spot.

Then, the thirteen year-old finally broke the silence. "I-it wasn't real?" His voice was shaky and uneven, breaking halfway through.

Charlie shook his head sadly. "No, it wasn't. I promise, George. Fred's ok. He's outside right now."

"It was a… a fear?"

Once again, Charlie nodded. "Boggarts are creatures that assume the form of the present person's worst fear, whatever it may be."

His eyes never wavered from the spot. "Worst… fear?"

For the third time, Charlie nodded, even though George couldn't see him. "If you don't believe me, we can go outside right now to see him-"

"_No!"_ George suddenly whipped his head around to face Charlie, his voice high with panic. Charlie jumped. "Don't tell Fred, please! Don't tell him, or mum, or-or anyone!"

It saddened Charlie to see his little brother, the trouble-maker, the one who was always laughing, so terrified.

There was another silence. Then, Charlie seemed to know exactly what to say. "You know, the only time I've encountered a boggart was in Defense Against the Dark Arts Class a while back. Do you want to what my boggart takes the form of?"

George sniffled loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. "What?"

"Me. Behind bars. While my family suffers. And I can't break free."

George stopped stirring then, and his eyes looked distant and thoughtful. He cracked a weak smile. "I would have thought it'd be some out-of-control dragon or something."

Charlie forced a laugh. "I wasn't too afraid of that until last summer," he said, glancing down at the black, shiny burn mark on his arm. "But that's not the point. The point is, I _hate_ the feeling of not being able to do something when my family's in need. I hate it. That's why I'm always going to be here for you guys. I'll always break free of that cage." Charlie looked down into the freckled face of George. "I'm always going to be here for you, alright? I promise."

Charlie had never considered himself very good with words. Bill was always the smooth talker, Percy was always the smart one, and Fred and George were the funny ones. Charlie, well, he didn't really know what he was. He was just Charlie. So he was pretty proud of himself for giving this little speech without even stopping to think. Like it had been planning itself out in the back of his head for a while now, and it had finally taken its chance to come forward.

George finally seemed to calm down. His eyelids drooped, like he was suddenly exhausted. Then he nodded, very slowly.

Charlie stood up, helping George up, too. "I'll finish up in here. You can go upstairs and rest up a bit. I'll tell Mum all the dust was getting to your head."

George, eyes blood-shot and shoulders limp, turned out of the room to leave. Right before he reached the door, though, he turned back to Charlie, who had already enchanted the broom to sweep the floor. "Charlie?"

"Yeah?" The older boy turned.

"Thanks."

Charlie cracked his famous ear-to-ear grin. "Any time."

**A/N: Ta da! Next part happens a bit later, during a scene we're all very familiar with. **

**So, what did you think? Did I do ok? Better than ok? Worse than ok? Please let me know! I love reviews!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~blue-eyed-cow**


	2. Part Two: To Know, To Understand

**A/N: Here's part two! This one is the shortest; sorry.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it.**

Part Two: To Know, To Understand

George didn't know what he was seeing.

Well, either that or he just didn't _understand_ what he was seeing. There is a difference between knowing and understanding, you know. Like, for example, George _knew _he was seeing his family huddled around a spot on the ground. He knew they were all sobbing over a body on the floor. He knew someone must be dead. That he knew for a fact. However, he didn't _understand _it at all. No matter how much his brain tried to put two and two together, he couldn't come up with an answer. It just didn't make any sense. One of the Weasley's just _couldn't _be dead. It was an impossibility. Unreal.

No matter how hard he tried, he didn't understand how the body could just be _lying_ on the ground like that. He couldn't and wouldn't understand it. Couldn't and wouldn't accept it.

Which just made it all the more worse when he saw whose body was on the ground.

For a moment, he didn't feel anything at all. He didn't feel a thing when he saw that the body lying there was Fred's. His twin's. Dead. It wasn't that he didn't care. No, he jut didn't feel anything at all. Like his whole entire body and mind had just suddenly gone numb. Like his brain shut off and refused to comprehend what it was seeing.

Then his brain began to work again, but only slightly. He saw his family, who saw him. They all looked devastated. Was it because of their loss? Or because George was nearly the exact replica of the dead Weasley? The one they would have to live with for the rest of their lives; a constant reminder of the one they had lost? George didn't know. He was still numb, and this was still unreal. He saw blood, he saw tears. He saw Fred's face. Smiling.

He didn't know what happened to his brain after that. It seemed to turn back on, but it still didn't seem to be working correctly. Like the gears in his head were turning the wrong way, making all his thoughts backwards. He saw his dead brother smiling. Smiling at him.

George smiled, too.

Then he laughed.

"Nice one, Fred!" The twenty year-old nearly had to shout to be heard over the combined noise of the Great Hall, which was mostly composed of sobbing. His family all looked up at him. Hurt in their eyes. And fear. And confusion.

George continued, not even acknowledging anyone else. He laughed harder. A bizarre, sick, twisted laugh. But it wasn't George's fault. His brain wasn't working properly. This was all he knew how to do.

"Very funny! You can get up now! Joke's over! You've got everyone worried, you arse!" George began to laugh some more. He was getting strange looks, as well as extremely fearful looks. But George didn't care. He kept talking. "C'mon, it's not funny anymore, Fred! This is getting ridiculous. Get up…"

But then something else wired itself in his brain. Ridiculous. It sounded so familiar. Then George started laughing harder. "So, it's a boggart, is it? Well then someone get rid of it! What's the big deal?"

Once again, he was getting looks of all types. Some of his family began to weep even harder. But George still didn't understand. He knew. He just didn't understand.

Then the gears in his head began to work again, but they were whirling much too fast.

George didn't know what he was doing. But next thing he knew, he was on his knees next to Fred, grasping onto his shoulders with a firm grip. Then he was yelling. Screaming into those lifeless eyes. "Fred, _it's not funny! Get up!_ DAMMIT, FRED, GET UP! WHY WON'T YOU GET UP? WAKE UP! WAKE U-"

He felt another firm grasp on his own shoulders. He was roughly being pulled to his feet. But he was still angry. Angry at his twin. Angry for pulling such a cruel joke on his family. Angry at-

Someone slapped him across the face.

The world seemed to stand still. George's cheek was throbbing. The universe had frozen. All was quiet.

George looked up into the weather-beaten face of Charlie. He didn't say a word. The look on his face was enough.

George broke down into tears. He finally understood. Fred was dead.

Charlie clutched on tight to his little brother. They cried together.

**A/N: Poor George.**

**Review please? :)**

**~blue-eyed-cow**


	3. Part Three: Acceptance

**A/N: Hello! This is the last, (and longest) part of the story. I hope you all enjoyed reading it. This chapter switches view a lot, so I hope no one minds. Please enjoy, though!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. What do I own? A laptop, an imagination, and ten fingers. That's about it.**

Part Three: Acceptance

For what seemed like the millionth time in only a week, someone was knocking on George's door. This time it was Ginny. She and Mrs. Weasley were two of the most frequent knockers, and frankly, no one was surprised. A little annoyed at them for not leaving the poor boy alone, but not at all surprised.

From the couch in the sitting room, Charlie could hear Ginny climbing the stairs to the second landing. Then she knocked on the door, followed by words that had also seemed to be repeated a million times this week. "George, please open the door. We want to help you."

And, also for the millionth time this week, she got no answer.

George was defiantly in there. He just didn't want anyone else in there with him.

This week had been unbelievably rough on the now incomplete family of redheads. Harry and Fleur were staying at The Burrow, as well. Hermione had been here until yesterday, when she decided she needed to find her parents and make sure they were all right. If she made it to Australia and back ok, she'd be back here with Ron in about three days. Charlie wasn't sure if Ron would last that long without her.

Everyone seemed to be falling apart at the seams. Mrs. Weasley spent most of her time either crying or cooking and cleaning, which seemed to take her mind off things. There was now an unbelievable amount of extra food on the house, but no one really seemed to mind this. The house was also very clean; it was nearly as clean as it had been before the wedding. But no one said anything.

Mr. Wealsey hadn't gone back to work yet. He spent all his time at home, holding his wife when she cried, sitting down all day, staring into nothingness. He was trying to be strong for the rest of his family.

Bill was the really strong one, though. He was the one who organized the funeral. Who dug the grave. Who spoke the most. Who comforted Ginny when she cried. Bill was the strong one. He could cope. Most of the time.

Percy, on the other hand, wasn't doing too well. He felt an unbelievable, extreme amount of guilt. Although his parents had told him they had forgiven him about a million times, Percy wasn't convinced. He felt like an intruder. An outsider. Someone who shouldn't be involved with something this devastating. He kept saying the death was his fault. That he should have saved him. He was there, he should have done something. This, of course, was stupid. Percy couldn't have saved him even if he knew what was going to happen. Percy knew this. Everyone else knew this. But Percy still felt guilty.

Ron didn't seem to know what to do, especially now that Hermione was gone. He would sit down, then get up, then walk around, then eat something, then sit back down again, and then repeat that cycle a hundred more times. He was unsure of nearly everything. When he was with Harry and Hermione he seemed at his happiest, talking of their adventures, recalling the tale of the downfall of the Dark Lord. But most of the time, he felt the same pain as his family did, hero or not.

Ginny cried a lot. She never really cried a lot before this. She was tough. Growing up with six older brothers, you're not defined as particularly the most girlish figure of the house. But now, she couldn't stop. She'd hug herself, sniffling. She'd hold onto others, crying into their shirts. She'd sit in front of George's room for hours, praying that he would open up.

The Weasley's, or anyone else for that matter, hadn't seen George since the funeral, two days after the battle. Even then, he looked terrible. Now, the door to his room was always closed and locked. Any one of them could have unlocked it with their wands, but that would be wrong. They didn't want to invade on his privacy. So Charlie didn't know why they kept knocking.

Charlie was trying to be like Bill. He was trying to stay strong. He really was. But he didn't feel like it was working.

Charlie wouldn't feel complete until he knew George was all right.

He sat on the couch for a few minutes longer, waiting until Ginny left the second landing and retreated into her room, eyes filled to the brim with tears again. Then, making sure no one was watching, Charlie slowly lifted himself up, walked over to the stairs, and climbed them up until he got to a small landing, where Fred and George's room was located. Or, rather, just George's room. Charlie winced.

The twenty-five year-old stood in front of the door for a while, not quite sure of what to do. He knew if George wouldn't let his own little sister in, whom he was always so fond of, he definitely wouldn't let his older brother in. The twins never really needed to rely on their older siblings for much. And it wasn't like Charlie had any special connections with him or anything. Well, there was that small incident seven years ago, but Charlie was just doing his job as an older brother. Then there was last week, in the Great Hall. But that was only because no one else was going to do it. No, Charlie knew for a fact that George wouldn't open up to him. But Charlie just needed to know that George was there. Just as George needed to know that Charlie was there. He would always be there, just as he had told him all that time ago.

He didn't knock. Instead, he just started talking.

"George? It's Charlie," the man started unsurely, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I don't know if you can hear me, and if you can, I'm sure you've already heard this a million times. But… I just wanted you to know that we're all here for you. No matter what. And I know you've been told that we're all sad and we all understand what you're feeling. It's true, the whole family is sad, but I know that none of us can even come close to feeling what you must be, er, feeling right now." Charlie knew his words sounded jumbled and bad, but he was still hoping George could hear him. "You don't have to let any of us in. I hope you know that. But I also hope you know that whenever you want to, we're all here for you."

Charlie stood at the door for a few seconds more, unsure of what else to say. Finally, he sighed and turned to leave. He didn't know what he was expecting. That certainly didn't make him feel any better.

But just then, a sound made him stop in is tracks. There came a small 'click' from the door, as if it had just been unlocked. Charlie was sure he must be hearing things, but then the door opened a crack, then a little wider.

From behind the door Charlie could see the face of George Weasley. Even by the little light that was available, Charlie saw that his younger brother looked terrible. He was about three shades paler than what he usually was, with dark circles under his blood-shot eyes and his flaming red hair long and unruly. Stubble was starting to show itself on the young man's chin. He looked like he hadn't had a break in years.

"Wanna come in?" Even his voice sounded tired and worn. His throat must have been dry, for his voice was weak and cracked, and he winced as he spoke.

Too surprised to form words, Charlie merely nodded like an idiot.

George opened the door a little wider, allowing Charlie to enter the small room. He took a quick glance around. In a lot of ways, it was the same as it had been all those years ago. Diagrams of crazy inventions and lists of ingredients hung on the walls, decorating them with the color of lead and quill ink. There was a dresser in the corner with a mirror above it. A desk sat in the opposite corner, covered in even more drawings and notes. The air smelled of gunpowder, and Charlie quickly took notice of black smoke marks on some parts of the walls and ceilings, as if there had been some mini explosions there. The ground was still wooden. The ceiling was still low. The walls were still olive-green. But there was one very obvious difference. While one bed sat in the same place it had always been, the other bed was pushed as far away as it could be, against the opposite wall. It was made. Fred and George's beds were never made.

George slumped onto his own bed, the one that was not and had never been made, vacant-looking eyes glued to the floor. He looked sort of lost, like he didn't know why he let Charlie in at all. Charlie himself just stood there for a few more seconds. Then he sank down onto the bed, sitting next to George. The twin didn't move.

Now that Charlie was here, he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He wanted so much to do something for George, but he didn't know what. He looked at the younger man, as if _he_ would be the one to give Charlie an answer. As if he would just come right out and say what he wanted Charlie to do to make him feel better, like a child comes right out and tells Santa what they want for Christmas.

Charlie looked at George.

George looked at Charlie.

George looked sad.

So Charlie put a hand on George's shoulder.

That's when the dam broke. George couldn't stand it any more. His brother's warm, comforting hand on his shoulder was the breaking point. George put his face in his hands and sobbed. He sobbed for his dead twin. He sobbed for everyone lost in the battle. But mostly, he sobbed because of the guilt. He had pushed them away. He had pushed everyone away. All they wanted to do was help. That's all they wanted. But George would have none of it. What would Fred say? He'd be ashamed. George could imagine his voice, almost the same as George's own, saying, _'Stop being such an arse and making our little sister cry! Jeez, you know it's bad when you need _Charlie_ to comfort you!'_ He was right. George was a wimp. A pathetic wimp. He didn't deserve anyone's concern.

And he missed his twin.

All these conflicted thoughts and feelings, which George had been trying so hard to keep out of his head in the past week, were creating a fog around George. An impenetrable fog. There was no one in George's world but him, his thoughts, and the voice of his dead twin.

"George?"

Another voice broke through the fog.

Charlie.

George looked up from his hands to see that his older brother was still there, his hand still on George's shoulder. He didn't look concerned. He looked sad.

Charlie wasn't concerned. He knew George. He knew George was strong. He knew George wouldn't ever want his family's concern. Even after all that George had been through, Charlie knew he wouldn't want it. That didn't mean he didn't want to help George, however.

"George. I know you miss him, and I know you feel bad about pushing us away. Sure, I don't know exactly what's going through your head right now, I'm sure no one could ever guess, but I've got a vague idea. But you need to listen to me. No one's going to force you to open up. No one wants to do that, George. But when you're ready, we're all here for you. No one's mad. No one's going to be judging anyone. And I know it's hard sometimes to open up, because you feel like that would mean you'd have to push everything, all your troubles, aside. All your thoughts and all your doubts. But we're your family. And we're a pretty wacky family, may I add. You don't need to do any pushing of the sort to talk to us. We're all in this together. We're all willing to help. We all love you, George."

Charlie didn't know where the hell all that came from. He was just speaking his mind; speaking the truth. But when George's eyes met Charlie's, Charlie knew he had done something right. Some of the sadness melted away from George's eyes.

Then the twenty year-old stood up, somewhat shakily, and grabbed his wand off the desk. Charlie looked at him, confused.

"What are you doing?"

George looked back at him, done crying, done running, done hiding. "Disapparating to the bathroom. Gotta wash up. If mum sees me like this, she'll have a fit."

That's when Charlie knew: the old George was back.

Well, some of it, at least.

"George?" Charlie said his name one more time before the man disapparated.

"Hm?" he answered.

"Remember what I said to you in the scullery seven years ago?"

George was silent for a few seconds, before he said softly, "That you'd always be here for me."

Charlie smiled. "Alright. That's all I needed to hear. Will I see you downstairs soon, then?"

A very thin, tired smile slowly worked its way onto George's face. It was the first one seen there in a while. "Yup."

Charlie, feeling dazed and very triumphant at the same time, turned to leave. But George stopped him. "Charlie?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for… for keeping your promise."

Charlie looked at the man from head to toe. Tired, shaken, sad, and scarred, but certainly healable. Charlie smiled. "Any time, kiddo."

**A/N: Meh, I think this is my least favorite part… the end felt a little rushed… but what do you readers think? Please review and let me know how I did! I appreciate it so much! I'll try to get back to you if you review, and I also welcome anonymous reviews and helpful criticism! And if anyone has any requests for future Fred and George stories, I'll be happy to take them and credit you for them!**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**~blue-eyed-cow**


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